ice and snow which are above, are more or less constantly in motion. As masses of ice are perpetually detaching themselves and moving down, often with tremendous noise, chasms and fissures are formed, which make it extremely dangerous to walk upon these glaciers, and none should attempt it without a skilful guide. Not a few persons have fallen into these crevices and been lost. Indeed, nothing can be more appalling scarcely than the sight of those chasins, some of them only a few inches, and others several feet in width, and extending down in some cases hundreds of feet. M. de Luc makes mention of a Mr. Escher who, notwithstanding the remonstrances of his guides, undertook to traverse a glacier, in order to reach two chamois-hunters whom he saw sitting on a rock at the upper end of the glacier, and at no great distance from him. In an instant, losing his foot-hold, he fell into a fissure and disappeared for ever from their sight! The moving masses of ice carry with them the bodies of persons who have thus fallen into the chasms, and in process of time carry them down to the valleys below. In the same way masses of rock are carried down.

The first attempt to ascend to the top of Mont Blanc, was made, it is said, in 1762, by Pierre Simon, of Chamouni. It was unsuccessful. Mr. Bourrit, of Geneva, and M. de Saussure made fruitless attempts in 1784 and 1785. Other unsuccessful attempts had been made. But in 1786, on the 8th of August, Jacques Balma (who had ascended with a party in June of that year, that had failed to reach the top) succeeded in going up with a Dr. Pachard, of Chamouni. On the 2d of August, 1788, M. de Saussure reached the summit; and gave to the world a glowing account of the wonderful, and almost boundless, vision which he enjoyed from that great elevation. Since that epoch, almost every year some persons have attempted to ascend. Down till 1827, there had been only fourteen successful ascents, and eighteen persons, exclusive of guides, had gained the height. Ten of these were Englishmen, two Americans (Dr. Van Rensselaer and Mr. Howard), two Swiss, one Russian, one German, and one Savoyard. Since 1827, several others have succeeded in ascending. About fifteen years ago, a party of guides ascended, and took with them Maria de Mont Blanc, as she is called, a high-spirited girl; and in 1838, a Mademoiselle D'Angeville also succeeded in reaching the summit.

The valley of Chamouni is visited every sum

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mer by strangers from all parts of the civilized world; and not without reason. There is no scenery of the kind in any part of the world, that is so beautiful and so grand. The view of the valley itself, carpeted over with smiling fields and meadows, and of the hoary head of Mont Blanc, with the Aiguilles, or sharp-pointed rocky masses, which, like turrets, rise from the various summits around, that one has from La Flegère, on a mountain which stands on the north side of Chamouni, cannot be conceived by those who have not enjoyed it. Chamouni and Mont Blanc are to Europe what Niagara is to America, each is excellent of its kind; and both display in the most wonderful manner the grandeur which the infinite God can give to his works when he chooses. The albums of the hotels of the village of Chamouni contain the names of those who annually visit this delightful valley. Many have left other memorials of their visits than the mere inscription of their names in the books of a tavern. Those who have, or think they have, the spirit of the muses, are careful not to lose the opportunity to record some verses.* But we have never seen anything in these effusions to compare with some things of the kind which one finds at Niagara, and especially the immortal ode of the lamented Brainard.

Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we,
That hear the question of that voice sublime?
O, what are all the notes that ever rung
From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering
side!

Yea, what is all the riot man can make,
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar !
And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him
Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains ?-a light wave
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might."

*Lord Byron, during one of his visits to Chamouni, wrote some verses in the album of the Hotel de l'Europe; but some vandal of a traveller has torn out the leaf in order to have Lord B's autograph.

A SHOUT, long, loud, tumultuous, like the voice
Of congregated hosts, is on the air;
The foaming sea rolls back in trumpet tones
The sound, till ev'ry breeze bears on its wing
A deafening peal.

Is it the voice of praise

Sent from a nation's grateful heart to Heav'n?
Oh Israel! thine altar is profaned—
The morning sacrifice of ingrate souls
Is laid upon a blacken'd shrine, and lips
That should have breathed in holy awe the prayer
Of loyal hearts, are bowed in dust to kiss
An idol face; and sacrilegious hands
Have dared to pluck the honors of a God,
And wildly wreathe them round a mortal brow.

Dense crowds press on.-Subdued but lovely
Greece;

Imperial, proud Rome; cities of Tyre
And Sidon, each brave tribute give, to swell
The gay, expectant throng.

But when the heav'n-lit fire of eloquence
Kindled upon his lip, and burning words
Borne on a voice of deep-toned melody,
Arose like ocean-music on the air,
Then burst the thunder of applause, and rent
The morning silence with the pealing notes
That rolled sonorous from a thousand tongues,
'Till ev'ry hill and mountain echoed back
Idolatry's fierce shouts-a God! a God!
The wings of morning took the impious cry
And bore it up to heav'n where vengeance sat;
That arm shall hurl it with a fearful weight
Upon thy guilty head, thou supple king.

Tremble! th' avenging angel's on the wing,
The bird of night-ili omen, broodeth nigh-
Thy guiding star is on the wane, and Death
Waves his pale ensign o'er thy opening tomb.
E'en now his icy signet's on thy brow,
His chill breath on thy bloodless lip and cheek.
Look up and if thou can'st, drink in once more
The pure, sweet light of Heav'n-that Heav'n
which thou

With old frontery hast dared to rob
Of homage due to Cd alone; and move
Thy quiv'ring tips in prayer, if thus thy soul
May expiate its dark, unholy deed.
Oh! nerve thy spirit for its upward flight,
And when a stricken nation's tears baptize
Thy livid corse-a nation's wail repeats
The mournful dirge of Judah's fallen prince,
Thy soul disrobed before the eye of Heav'n
Shall wait its audit at the bar of God.

LIVING in a land of Christians and Christian privileges, we can scarcely imagine the condition of such a country as Greece in the days of her philosophers. We look to one fountain as the source of all doctrine, one standard of right and wrong. Then men followed the beck of the sage teachers, whose creeds were as many as themselves. But it is interesting to observe that the nature of men led them to adopt such creeds as possessed much poetical beauty. Perhaps a few moments passed in noticing this fact, may not be unprofitably spent. We shall not undertake to define Poetry. The admirer of Homer, or he who makes Virgil his companion in the closet and the walk, looks for vivid description and rich incident, as constituent parts, while the lover of Gierusalemme Liberata or the Divina Commedia, turns from these old epics in disgust. Equally at variance are the sentiments of the reader of Shelley, Goethe and Byron, from his who admires Thompson, Goldsmith or Cowper. The conclusion therefore is that Poetry is that which produces an effect on the passions varying as the cause. If we analyze the feeling produced on reading Milton, we shall find it not essentially different from that experienced by one who listens to the dash of the surf at night, while the melody of Tasso is none other than that of a bubbling fountain or the same waves singing themselves to rest. Unwritten Poetry exists everywhere; so much so that the idea itself has become hackneyed. Adam saw the Poetry of nature, and we fancy he must have listened often to the song of the morning stars. If he did not, we can answer for ourselves that we have. The earth waxed old and sinful, and the deluge woke man from a delirious dream. The last agonizing cry of mortality rang over the startled waters, and then years passed on before the dull realities of a growing world permitted the sons of Noah to regard the passions and propensities of the heart. Pass we immediately on to the days of Grecian Philosophy.

On the statue of Epicurus was inscribed: "Oh tenebris tantis tam clarum lumen extollere Qui primus potuisti, illustrans commoda vitæ."

A text that for a long discourse, we shall make it short. That light was brilliant but fitful, and has long ago died away. The ancient Philosophies (we hesitate when we say it, lest the dead of centuries turn restlessly in their slumberings) were glorious dreams, chiefly

rich in poetic beauty The growth of Poetry was analogous to that of mind until it arrived at a certain point. As yet that point was unattained, and man was prepared to receive the most fantastic ideas, and treasure them in proportion as they were less real and more dazzling. There had been as yet no thought of curbing or disciplining the spirit, and it is not the least remarkable feature of the Philosophies of that age, that while all were sedulously directing their attention to the soul, they rather regarded it as a distant object, the approximation to which was the object of life, than as the first principle of their own being, whose visible existence was in every thought and action. Of consequence they were ready to grasp no sound and perfectly constructed theory, but reason and imagination formed a strange alliance, and the product was those gorgeous and startling figments that we can only term dreams.

The light of revelation had not dawned on Greece, when a star arose above an obscure hut in Miletus. All eyes were directed towards its wanderings until it settled over Athens, in the full brilliancy of the Socratic Philosophy; men were charmed to worship. Well had it been said of the son of Sophroniscus, "Illustrans commoda vita." Disciples gathered from all countries to hear him reason of righteousness, temperance and a judgment to come. Righteousness that we might even now almost recognize, Temperance severe and stern, a future, that the sage feared yet longed for. He arrived by a direct and logical method at the memorable conclusion that he knew nothing save his want of a teacher from above. The pupil forgot the master's warning. The latter, led by the love and full appreciation of truth, was heedful and chastened. The former, loving the beautiful and mystic, as well as retaining much of his teacher's counsels, put forth ideas of immortality, not inconsistent with revelation, but marked with a high degree of poetic fervor.

Plato was a strong reasoner, and (strange union) a poet. We challenge uninspired literature to produce such a perfect specimen of Poetic Philosophy; apparently heedless of the last conclusion of his master in hidden lore, he groped in search of that which the unaided intellect cannot attain. Read if you will the record of numbered years, open the garner of buried ages, look at nature's storehouse of fair things, the earth and sea and all beauty, and above at the depths of pure unfathomable

glory; and learn of all these. Treasure up all the learning that time has hoarded for you, but dare not to lift the veil of the future, or gaze at aught in it, until you have knelt to him whose alone the future is.

Far be it from us to depreciate in the least, the work of the mighty Academician. We are not so mad. Our object is only to show the helplessness of Philosophy, when the light of revelation is withheld. To the question, " Shall I read Plato?" we answer unhesitatingly, "If you can appreciate and understand him, Yes." Unsurpassed in argument, he was led too far and became of necessity poetical. With him, forget that you are in a land of gospel light and revealed religion, regard utility as a motive too base for an immortal, and then revel with him in the dreamy land.

We can see him now, his white locks streaming in the wind, which he points to as an emblem of the soul, unseen yet felt, unknown yet known. We can catch the flash of his eager eye, and see the convulsive movement of his lip as he half hesitates to speak of things so mighty. And now, his head thrown back, and his eye fixed upward, as if to gaze into infinity, and ask of the eternal what he is, we can hear as a rich strain of music, the words that picture forth To Ayatov. This is

"An Orphic song indeed,

A song divine, of high and passionate thoughts To their own music chanted."

We have heard it! at midnight when the soul, wrapt in the mantle of its own imaginings, had gathered to it all things of the olden time, when in the inner sanctuary of this temple, the high priests of learning were ministering as they were wont, in days that are told, and the voice of all material things was hushed in the anthem of departed glories, then, above the thousand chords, touched by ten thousand hands, have we heard the thrilling music of the old Academy.

But the fathers of the Ionic school were not the only Poet Philosophers. Long after the star of Socrates had set, when the grove was temporarily deserted, and the Platonists were

an obscure sect, the torches of Aristotle, the Stoic and the Cynic were flashing in the palaces of Greece. Did space allow we might go on to show the poetic beauty of these scarce inferior sages. We have no treasures save our Bible, that we regard with half the veneration and love that we have for the fragments of Pythagoras, Zeno, Epicurus and the unconnected quotations of Antisthenes. It is much to be lamented that the vitiated taste of this age is rejecting the antique because it is visionary, and courting and greedily seizing on that which is a hundred fold more so. The cold winds of a modern age swept over the fair flowers of Ancient Philosophy, and they withered. The unskilful nurture of the Roman suffered them to grow unprotected, and the Reformation finding them in such hands ruthlessly chilled them. They hung drooping and lifeless, yet rich in color, evidencing their former beauty, until the touch of Bacon, leading on the pack of modern utilitarianism, scattered them on the ground. Few cared to gather the petals; yet we might linger long here to show how the modern founder of inductive reasoning, chose the gems of Aristotle as the foundation of his theories. But this is not in our course. A few leaves were saved from the general wreck, and placed in that sanctuary of time-honored things the scholar's closet, and here and there, a solitary may be found, kneeling before a leaf of the ancient poetic Philosophy. Need we pause to derive a moral from its fate? "Here" exclaimed the earl of Rochester, laying his hand on his Bible, "Here is true Philosophy." The sage of old time looked earnestly for an unknown teacher; we kneel to him revealed unto us.

He dreamed of a life to be; "Now the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God." Mere worldly wisdom has always been proved to be folly.

Here are wisdom and Poetry mingled with inimitable beauty; here is music to the weary soul; balm to the plague-marked brow; water to the parched lips; here is TRUTH, the To radov of all Philosophy W. C. P.

It was my privilege, about eighteen years ago, to make the acquaintance of an English gentleman, named WILLIAM T. MONCY, who related to me the facts I am about to record. He was a man of rare and varied excellence, who had served his country in numerous stations of honor and trust, in different parts of the world. For many years, he was a member of the House of Commons; being one of that small body of Christian statesmen, who, in connection with Mr. Wilberforce, supported Mr. Pitt in his general line of policy, and were thus enabled to claim many concessions from the Minister, of the highest importance to the cause of humanity and religion. Never will it be known, I believe, until the disclosures of the great day, how large was the share of this noble body of men, in preparing the way for those wider operations of Christian benevolence which characterize the present age, especially in those parts of the world where British favor and influence have been made to throw their protection around the friends of religion and humanity.

Mr. Moncy afterwards went to India in connection with the same Christian party, and in furtherance of their designs. He resided for some years at Bombay, occupying a judicial post of great responsibility, and it was there that the events took place, of which I am about to speak. When I knew him, he had recently returned from the East, and was then filling the office of British Resident, at Venice; a station selected for him by his friends, as one in which to repair the injury done to the health of his family by the enervating climate of Hindostan.

Here, as everywhere, his chief desire, his constant aim and effort was to do good, especially to the souls of men With this view, he sent to England for a young clergyman of evangelical principles and devoted piety, and supported him, at his own expense, as chaplain of the British Residency at Venice. His object was, to provide a place of Protestant worship for thousands of his countrymen who visit Italy every year, in pursuit of health or pleasure, and who take up their residence for a part of the season, in that city of palaces and paintings. The pleasing manners and generous

hospitality of Mr. Moncy, would naturally make his house the resort of most of the English who passed through Venice. To these claims on his time and attention, he laid himself open with a readiness not often found in public functionaries, because he hoped, in this way, to draw many under the influence of the gospel, who knew little or nothing of spiritual Christianity in their own country. Those who frequented his house every day of the week, could hardly refuse to assist him, by their presence on Sunday, in holding up the Protestant worship of their native land. The English, indeed, have a sentiment of honor on this subject, which, I regret to say, is shared by too few of our countrymen who visit the continent of Europe. They consider it a mark of rationality, to attend public worship in foreign countries, according to the ordinances of their own church; so that persons of that gay and pleasure-loving class, who, coming from America, utterly neglect the services of the sanctuary while in France and Italy, are found, among the English, sustaining the Protestant worship. of their fathers with the utmost punctuality. This gives evangelical churches among them an opportunity of doing much good to the gayer part of their countrymen abroad. Many to whom religion had been a thing of mere outward form in England, have, for the first time in their lives, heard the gospel preached in its true import and power, on the continent, in chapels opened and sustained by such men as Mr. Moncy and Lewis Way, who, in going abroad for health or pleasure, go abroad also to do good.

1 shall not dwell on the delightful Christian intercourse which I had with this excellent man and his family, in the eight or ten days during which his kindness detained me under his roof. My sole object, indeed, in speaking of his life and character at all, has been to prepare the reader to enter more fully into the events I am about to describe. The facts have been given to the public in general terms before; but there were circumstances connected with the scene, as presented by Mr. Moncy, which greatly heightened its interest; and which though necessarily suppressed when the events were